


Winter's Wind, the Guardian of the North

by JustHereForBookmarks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon's Conquest, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Dragons, Gen, House Stark, House Targaryen, Independent North (ASoIaF), Parley, Riverlands (ASoIaF), The King in The North, War, duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27116168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustHereForBookmarks/pseuds/JustHereForBookmarks
Summary: The North will not surrender peacefully to Aegon Targaryen and his sisters. Torrhen Stark suggests an alternative. One that is too tempting to refuse.(yes, I know that this summary is suggestive, but this story is quite tame on that front.)
Relationships: Aegon I Targaryen & Rhaenys Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I) & Visenya Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I), Aegon I Targaryen/Rhaenys Targaryen (Sister of Aegon I), Brandon Snow & Torrhen Stark, Orys Baratheon & Aegon I Targaryen, barely - Relationship
Comments: 24
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers!
> 
> So for those waiting for more The Prophet From Maine, I'm still beginning to write the next 100k words of that. However, for my own amusement, I decided to publish this.
> 
> Over a year ago, I was debating which OC GoT fanfic I would commit to and write long-form and I was stuck between two ideas; this and The Prophet From Maine. Now, obviously this didn't win out and I'm glad for it. However, I had still some 14k words of it written and it was sitting on my desktop. So I decided to clean it up (briefly) and publish for whomever would enjoy it. It's only a few chapters long, think of this of a Halloween special...I guess.
> 
> For those curious and if you like this, please check The Prophet From Maine if you haven't already. Hope you enjoy!

Aegon landed on the open field, surveying the surrounding area as he dismounted from Balerion. He had already observed the field from above, but he had learned from experience that his view from Balerion obscured the smaller things on the ground. However as he looked around, he saw no threat. Besides, if there was any danger, Balerion would not have landed.

The Black Dread settled into the earth. Aegon stroked his scales one last time before marching on through the tall grass. Orys Baratheon came to his side along with twenty men under the red and black Targaryen banner, having marched since morning to be here. They saw the men gathered in the middle of the field for the parley. Their banner was prominent as well: a snarling grey direwolf upon a white field.

“Any trouble since we left, your Grace?” said Orys, his eyes fixed on the Stark bannerman.

“Their army is staying put. As is ours” said Aegon. He allowed his eyes to wander from the men; over the fields and distant hills. This was beautiful country.

“Could have picked a closer spot to surrender,” muttered Orys.

“Do you think they will?”

“Aye. And so do you. They heard what happened in the Reach. But again, who knows? Northerners are stubborn fools.”

“Spoken like a true southern lord. You’re adapting to your new position rather quickly.” Aegon brought his eyes back to the men that awaited them. The man who stood in the center drew his attention; Torrhen Stark, the last King in the North.

“Well, whether it comes to battle or diplomacy, let us be gracious either way.”

Orys allowed himself a small quick smile. It disappeared once they reached the top of the small hill. Aegon surveyed the lords and guards gathered at the parley. A few were women. All were fierce. All were calm.

That unnerved him. It also pleased him. Here were those he could be pleased to call his subjects. He admired their calm. He stepped forward from his guards to the center. Torrhen also stepped forward, halting a respectable distance from him.

A silence permeated the meeting. Aegon decided to break it.

“Your Grace” he said, politely nodding his head.

Torrhen gave a small smile. “I’m surprised to hear you use that honorific for me, your Grace. I supposed I should be flattered.”

“It is only the truth. That will not be the case for long, but you are a king still. If only for a few more hours.”

Many of the Northerners behind Torrhen tensed at that. One in particular, who shared many features with his King, even started forward. Torrhen glanced back at him and he stopped at once.

 _Torrhen’s bastard half-brother, Brandon,_ thought Aegon. _Impulsive man. Loyal though_.

Torrhen kept his eyes on his brother, who nodded before stepping back in line. Torrhen turned back to Aegon, his dark eyes relaxed.

“Forgive my men, your Grace. Some have forgotten that during a parley, the opposite side is bound to make some inflammatory proclamations.”

“Of course.”

“You want our kingdom.” Torrhen could have been talking about the weather with that tone.

“I want all seven. I will take them. Through diplomacy or bloodshed, I will conquer them."

Torrhen said nothing to that, continuing to peer at him pensively. Aegon met his stare evenly.

"King Torrhen, I, Aegon, first of my name, offer you this. Bend the knee and you will rise Torrhen Stark, a King no longer, but Warden of the North. You’ll rule as you and your family have ruled for thousands of years. Your bannermen will keep their lands and titles. Westeros is a land divided senselessly. Together, with seven powerful Wardens under the Targaryen family rule, we will elevate this land from a collective of squabbling royalties to a prosperity this continent has never known.”

The wind came from the east, bringing with it whiffs of heat from Balerion as he laid prone. Torrhen brought his eyes down, before breaking the silence.

“So that’s through diplomacy…and through bloodshed, I suppose I need only ask Harren Hoare or Mern Gardener. Should I meet them in the next world.”

Aegon nodded. “That’s right.”

Torrhen sighed. “I never saw Harrenhal before you burned it. Tell me, was it as magnificent and as terrible as they say?”

“Yes.”

Torrhen gave a sad smile. “It must have felt good to destroy it. Would you like some ale, your Grace? I’m afraid we don’t have any wine.”

Aegon paused. He couldn’t read Torrhen. He was far too casual for someone about to fight or surrender his family’s title. Still, he was thirsty and unafraid of poison. Not from Northerners.

“Certainly. If you would join me.”

Torrhen waved. A page came quickly with two cups and a small barrrel. He gave the first cup to Aegon, a slight tremble as he handed it off and filled it. He poured a second cup for Torrhen and disappeared.

They drank, Aegon taking a moderate draught, while Torrhen drained his cup. Torrhen threw his empty cup down.

“If it’s not too much trouble, your Grace, I’d like to speak to you in private. Down by the river.”

Aegon regarded the Northman. He could feel his own men’s reaction behind him; their aversion to this suggestion. What did Torrhen wish to say to him that he couldn’t say in front of his men? Was the shame of surrender too much? He would require him to kneel before onlookers at the end. To show that the North had truly succumbed to conquest. What was the point of such privacy?

Still…it was a modest request. And hardly dangerous. He heard distance rumblings from Balerion at the edge of the field. He was safe here.

“As you wish” said Aegon, draining his own cup and tossing it aside as well.

Torrhen nodded and strode away, down the hilltop, toward the Trident. Aegon followed him, still within eyesight of his men and Balerion. Torrhen came to the riverside and stood waiting. Aegon came to his side and as he did, he heard two loud roars from the skies.

He glanced up to see Vhagar and Meraxes as they flew over the Trident. Rhaenys was riding Meraxes, while Vhagar’s saddle was empty. They glided over the hilltop where the rest of the Stark and Targaryen waited for their private conference to end. The two dragons circled twice before flying back to the Targaryen base camp.

Aegon looked at Torrhen Stark to gauge his reaction. To see his eyes. But to his surprise, Torrhen did not look scared. Or worried. He merely seemed wistful, as though he staring into a glorious sunset or a sky full of stars. He turned to meet Aegon’s eyes.

“You are truly a king and your sisters queens if they’ve come to accept you as riders. I can’t imagine what it must be like to fly.”

“Very windy.”

Torrhen gave a soft laugh. “I suppose. Was that small flight planned? Motivation for the northern savages to surrender?”

“Not my idea. No. But if it works, I certainly won’t complain.”

Torrhen turned to him. “I'm afraid that it won’t work, your Grace.”

Aegon listened to the current flowing by. “That’s not a wise decision, Stark. And not one I expected from you.”

“And what did you expect? A full surrender? You’ve spent many years on Dragonstone, your Grace. We’ve seen your dragons fly over our lands before. You’ve been studying the kingdoms and the people who inhabit them. You know about my family. We have ruled and served the North for thousands of years. We’re not likely to abandon our people so easily. That should be clear enough, even from a view on dragonback.”

“The Gardeners ruled for thousands of years as well. They fell easily and now the Tyrells are Wardens of the Reach. The people still have their lands. They still have their trades. The North will survive a different family ruling from Winterfell.”

Torrhen gave a small friendly smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Harlen Tyrell, Warden of the Reach. That’s a lovely title for a steward. Tell me, is there any truth to the rumor that he sabotaged the Gardeners and the Lannisters? Advising them to fight your dragons on a dry field?”

Aegon considered it. “I’m afraid Lord Tyrell and I haven’t spoken on that subject.”

“Well, I suppose they’ll be your headache from now on. Perhaps not yours, but your children and theirs after will have to sleep with one eye open for ambitious stewards. I’ve been a King longer than you, so please consider this friendly warning, your Grace. There will come a time when that family will be satisfied with nothing less than a Kingship.”

“You and them have that in common, it seems.”

Torrhen shrugged. “That’s fair enough. Although unlike the Gardeners, I know the ambitions of my bannermen and how to keep them in check. Even the most cutthroat house in the North will not seek to dethrone my family.”

“The Boltons?”

Torrhen laughed softly. “You have watched us carefully.” He turned his gaze to the Trident, watching the currents. “Although perhaps you are right. Winterfell is only a castle and it can house any family who can claim it. The North may not suffer terribly under your rule, with a Stark as Warden, or an Umber or Karstark, should you choose to kill me.”

Torrhen met Aegon’s eyes. Aegon did not see any fear at all.

“You seem like you might be a good king. You came to the Riverlands and rescued them from a monster. You’ve decimated thousands in the field and you’ve been merciful enough in the aftermath. But you’ve only conquered. You haven’t ruled. And it's much more difficult than to build and curate than it is burn and pillage.

"But who knows? Perhaps as the years go by, smallfolk and lords alike will forget that you once bathed their ancestors in dragonflame. They will see only the riches your reign has brought, as King of the Six Kingdoms. The North has a much longer memory. They will not forgive my surrender and they will not forget that you’re no King of Winter. You have no place in the North, your Grace.”

Aegon exhaled through his nose. “You're cursed with stubbornness, Stark. You and the rest of the North. It's unfortunate. It truly is. You would have been a good Warden. An ally working for a prosperous kingdom.”

Torrhen gave that sad smile again. “I already work for a kingdom, your Grace.” He nodded back toward the group on the hill. “I propose we head back and finish this conversation for all to hear.”

Aegon didn’t deign to respond. He started walking back, hearing Torrhen Stark trudge behind him. His mind was already considering possible alternates for Wardens for the North. Torrhen Stark was done. All that was left were the theatrics for the parley.

They came back to where the bannermen and guards waited. Torrhen crossed behind to take his place alongside the Northmen. Aegon crossed to Orys, who stared at him, asking the silent question on everyone’s minds. Aegon shook his head. Orys nodded, but didn’t look too disappointed. The man loved a good fight. Aegon turned to face the Northerners.

“Torrhen Stark, let it be said in front of all that I offered you fair terms for surrender and you rejected them. So now this I promise: tomorrow, you and your line will be no more. Any who stand with you will die in flames.”

“Your Grace” said Torrhen, his hand waving slightly, deterring Brandon Snow from speaking out. “I am the only Northman who has defied you. There’s no need to involve my people. They do not need to die in battle tomorrow, facing dragonfire.”

Aegon stared at Torrhen for a moment, finally giving in to a small laugh. “No need to die? These are your men, Stark. Your army. They stand behind you. Do you propose to just…” Aegon couldn’t even find the words. He sighed. “What exactly do you propose?”

“My proposal is simple, your Grace. My army stays put in the morning. As does yours. There’s no reason for them to die. Then we finish this the old way. A champion for our side. A champion for yours. If you win, the North is yours. You take my head. You select a new Warden from my remaining bannermen. And you have yourself a new Kingdom with little bloodshed. This way, you leave the North enough people to harvest and work the land, so you won’t be met with our desolation the first few years of your reign.”

Aegon was smiling now. He couldn’t help it. “And if you win?”

Torrhen matched his smile. “We march home. A kingdom still. We’ll be open to trade after a few years when all have calmed down. Other than that, you leave us alone.”

There was a silence. Another gust from the east brought the heat of Balerion to the top of the hill. Aegon broke the silence.

“You feel that, don’t you, Stark? You see that. Balerion is a monster and he fights for me. He and both his brethren. Are you seriously suggesting that I forgo their strength and my armies to gamble my conquest and the North on a duel of champions? Fewer peasants put to the flame is tempting, but not nearly enough to bring this fight down between two men and their swords.”

Torrhen looked toward Balerion, then back to Aegon. “I never said anything about forgoing the dragons' strength, your Grace. You’re more than welcome to pick Balerion as your champion. Or any of the other two dragons. Our champion will fight them.”

There was a stunned silence. Aegon’s guards stood struck dumb. Orys Baratheon looked back and forth between Aegon and Torrhen. Aegon kept his eyes on Torrhen’s. Trying to find any sense in what the man just said. Torrhen simply stood there, politely, waiting for his answer. Aegon’s gaze traveled over the rest of the Northern men and people. They looked calm. Not surprised at all. Brandon Snow wore a small smile, his agitation forgotten.

Aegon returned his gaze to Torrhen.

“I need to understand this, Stark. You’re willing to send a man against a dragon…wagering your kingship on the man’s triumph?”

“More or less, your Grace.”

The wind rustled the high grass surrounding them. Aegon breathed slowly, hardly believing the situation as it stood.

“You’d send a man to die in dragonflame?”

“He volunteered, your Grace.”

“And this man, whom you trust so much with your crown…he is a great warrior?”

“He is our champion, your Grace. My most loyal servant, with strength unparalleled.”

Aegon laughed softly. “Enough strength to down a dragon?”

Torrhen shrugged. “I don’t know, your Grace. He’s never fought one before.”

Aegon looked into the man’s eyes, trying for the last time to read him and find any trick he’d pull, any insinuation he’d missed, anything to explain this proposed insanity. But Torrhen remained impassive and his demeanor spoke to no hidden agendas. He was truly placing his Kingship in the hands of a single man and trusting that this man would get the better of a dragon. What was this?

Finally, Aegon came to his decision. Wars are lost when one don’t take full advantages of opportunities and this was the biggest opportunity he and his sisters have encountered so far in Westeros. And with that, he spoke.

“Torrhen Stark, behind you stand your bannermen. Do I have your word and theirs, that when your champion falls, that they will peaceably accept my reign, the abdication of your throne, your death? And pledge obedience not only to me, but to the new Warden of the North of my choosing?”

Torrhen nodded. “You have my word and theirs. And do you swear, should our champion prevail, that you will leave our kingdom be and allow us to march back to the North, seeking no vengeance for your dragon?”

Aegon nodded. “I swear.” He felt Balerion stir and quieted him.

_Calm, my friend, calm. The human cannot touch us._

Balerion hummed and every man on the hill felt a tremor through his chest.

“There’s no need to burn a good piece of land, Stark. On this side of the Trident along the bed, there is a former resting place of Meraxes, a meadow already scorched. Two miles west of your army.”

Torrhen nodded. “I am aware.”

“You and your champion shall be there at midday. Our armies will stay put. My sisters and I will see you there with a dragon to burn your most loyal servant.” He couldn’t resist a small jab. “Does he have a preference, Stark, as to which dragon shall be his end?”

Torrhen smiled. “You are a cordial man, but no. Our champion will be honored to fight whomever you choose.”

Aegon shook his head. “It’s a shame. I could have taken the North with no lives lost. I suppose two lives are a bargain when it could have been thousands. Still, I am disappointed, Stark.”

Torrhen nodded his head. “Apologies for that, your Grace. I will see you tomorrow at midday with our champion. Have a good night, your Grace. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

And that, Torrhen Stark turned and walked away, leading his bannermen in the march back to camp. Aegon watched him go, felt the earth tremble as Balerion came up behind him. His men parted as Balerion’s massive head came beside him and let out a parting roar to the King in the North.

Most of the northerners turned around, their hands on their weapons, eyeing the dragon. Torrhen Stark, however, kept walking and didn’t look back. He disappeared into the trees, his bannermen following him.

Aegon stood in the tall grass. Orys Baratheon came up to him.

“Orders, your Grace?”

Aegon looked to him. “Get to the boats. And start rowing back. It will take you a while to return to camp, going against the current.”

“And you, your Grace?”

“I fly to my sisters and we decide which dragon of ours burns their champion Northman.”

Sensing Aegon’s instructions, Balerion placed his neck low. Aegon climbed into the saddle and flew over the guards. His great steed brought him high above and he saw the Northern armies gathered. Within a minute, he was flying over the Northerners’ camp. He wondered how many of them knew how lucky they were. That their King brought all their lives with just one champion.

Aegon couldn’t keep from smiling. Both from the stimulation of flying and the ridiculous proposal of Torrhen Stark. Although, as he turned Balerion around and flew back to the Targaryen camp, he supposed he should have thanked Torrhen for another reason. The most loyal servant of House Stark will present himself for an easy kill. One breath from a dragon and the seed for a rebellion will have been plucked before it had time to take root.

Still, it was only one man and only one possible rebellion. He trusted Stark to keep his word, but the Northerners could be fanatically devoted to their Kings of Winter.

He landed Balerion near Vhagar. Meraxes was playing in the air above them. He dismounted and headed into his tent.

However he could deal with that later. After all, one had to first conquer and then rule before facing a rebellion.

He poured himself a goblet of wine and strode over to his maps. His sister-wives would come to him in the evening.

* * *

The sun had set by the time Torrhen Stark and his bannermen arrived back at camp. He nodded to the bows and the greetings that came his way without truly registering them. The many lords who accompanied him broke off to their respective factions and he reached his tent in the center of the camp with only Brandon Snow and his personal guard.

Once in the tent, Torrhen Stark sat down, happy to be off his feet. A page entered with a plate of cheese, cured beef and bread. The young boy also set down two cups and filled them with ale.

“Cullen,” said Torrhen. “Fetch another cup, will you?”

The page nodded and left, slowing his pace as he went.

Brandon laughed. “Boy’s finally taking your order to stop shaking in fright.” He sat down and grabbed his cup, draining half of it. “Who’re you expecting?”

Torrhen glanced at his brother, who laughed into his cup.

“Suppose that’s a stupid question.”

“That’s not what I said,” said Torrhen lightly.

“You didn’t say anything, brother. That’s the point.” Brandon leaned back in his chair. Cullen the page entered with a cup. He made to pour when Torrhen stopped him.

“No need, Cullen. You’re dismissed for the night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Cullen bowed with a quick “Your Grace” before scampering outside.

Brandon gave a small chuckle before turning the attention on the King, who looked very tired. He hesitated to bring up his next point.

“Torrhen, you and him both gave your word to honor the duel and whatever comes of it. I know you will. What about him?”

Torrhen sighed. “I don’t know. I suppose he’s honorable. As far as a conqueror goes. Lannister is now a lord instead of a burned corpse. Argella Durrandon, or Baratheon now I assume, still resides at Storm’s End, her house words and sigil in tact. No reason to suspect he knows not the value of a promise.”

Brandon gave a look to the tent’s entrance. He knew the guards would never let anyone near enough to eavesdrop, but he still lowered his voice.

“He agreed to a duel, believing that tomorrow, a mere man will come charging at a dragon to be incinerated. He doesn’t think the dragon will be in danger. When he sees what he’s really up against, will he keep it a duel between two champions or will he bring the other two in?”

Torrhen stared at the brazier. The fire was beautiful and calming, but completely unnecessary in this weather. At least for him. He enjoyed the evening chill.

“Our champion will handle them, if need be.”

“Did he say that?”

The fire crackled in the silence. Brandon leaned back in his chair, taking his turn to sigh.

“Is that another question you’re not going to answer?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Torrhen gently. He smiled. “Invoking my royal privilege.”

“You’re a right royal shit.”

“I won’t dispute that.” Torrhen rubbed his brow. He was tired and tomorrow was going to come faster than they thought. “Go have some supper, Brandon. Afterwards, gather the main houses and tell them to prepare to march back home tomorrow after midday.”

Brandon Snow nodded, standing up. “All of them?”

“We’ll leave one full garrison on the Trident. To keep an eye on the enemy and make sure we’re not ambushed. Give that order to Lord Umber. He’d be enraged if ordered to march back with someone else protecting his rear.”

Brandon smiled. “Of course.” He made to leave but something stopped him. He turned back to his brother.

“Torrhen?”

Torrhen looked up, meeting his brother's eyes.

Brandon took a breath. “If our champion falls and you’re killed or even replaced for it…I won’t stay. You understand?”

Torrhen held his gaze a few seconds before he nodded, his mouth a thin line. “I understand.”

He didn’t like it, but he understood. He wondered if he would do the same if he were the bastard brother and Brandon was King. Could the North ever be his home without a Stark in Winterfell? He didn’t know. He hoped he wouldn’t find out tomorrow.

“Thank you for your company today, Brandon. I’ll see you before we march for the dueling grounds. Do you wish to be there?”

Brandon nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it. Good night, brother.” He turned to go.

“Brandon,” called Torrhen. Brandon turned around and saw his king brother as calm as he ever was. “I believe in our champion. Tomorrow we’ll march home.”

A few seconds went by before Brandon nodded and left the tent.

Torrhen gazed at the brazier for a few moments before getting up and pouring himself more ale. His eye fell to the third unused cup on the table. He had one more visitor before he could sleep tonight.

* * *

“You’re joking?” said Rhaenys, sitting across from Aegon, who sat with his hands folded in front of his mouth. Visenya was standing in between. Their supper laid forgotten in light of the news which Aegon just divulged.

Aegon had no time to reply as Rhaenys started laughing.

“One man to fight a dragon? He can’t be serious. He couldn’t have been.”

“He was serious,” said Aegon in a soft voice reserved only for the ears of his two sister-wives. “King Torrhen was very serious. His men were serious.”

Rhaenys stopped laughing, looking to her sister and back to Aegon.

“Well, then he must be mad.”

“He’s not mad either.”

Aegon’s mood had curdled in the past few hours. Maybe it was the campaign. Maybe it was being on the ground instead of flying on Balerion. Maybe it was the food. Whatever the cause, as the hours passed, Aegon felt his surety slipping away. Not vastly, but just enough where he was questioning the King in the North even more. The proposal for one Northman to fight a dragon was so ridiculous, it caught him off guard. Of course he agreed then. Never let an opportunity go by.

However, in the darkness of night and under the gaze of his two queens, he couldn’t help but wonder. What was Torrhen Stark’s game?

Visenya walked away from the table, facing the brazier. “What exactly did Torrhen Stark say and what did you agree to?” she asked, her back to them.

Aegon lowered his hands and went over the meeting.

“I offered him terms for surrender. He declined. He asked me a few questions about our past victories in the campaign.”

“How much did you tell him?”

Aegon shrugged. “Enough to leave anyone preferring a peaceful surrender. Nothing he wouldn’t have heard through heralds. We walked down to the shores of the Trident alone. He complemented the dragons. Told me that he wouldn’t surrender. I said my regrets. He suggested we go back to the men. I proclaimed that he refused to surrender and he suggested the duel.”

He turned to Visenya.

“I laughed, realized he was serious, agreed to the terms and flew back. We meet two miles west where Meraxes stayed when we took the Riverlands. Tomorrow at midday.”

Nothing was said for a minute. Aegon and Visenya waited for their sister to break it. She hated silences.

“All right,” proclaimed Rhaenys cheerfully. “So which one of us wants to fight their champion? A harrowing task, I’m sure.”

“Hold on, Rhaenys,” said Visenya. “Just wait.”

She turned to Aegon. “Do you know who their champion is?”

Aegon shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Was he at the parley?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know whom they’re selecting. I ask again, does it matter?”

Visenya came to the table, placing her palms upon the map of the Trident. She scanned the parchment in silence, her eyes still locked with the tabletop when she answered.

“It’s a trap, Aegon.”

“How can it possibly be a trap?” asked Aegon. He reached for some bread, trying to force himself to eat before leaning back and giving up. He sighed. “There could be something in the surrounding area. We’ll send some scouts ahead to search anything the Northerners could have…”

“I’m not talking about that,” said Visenya, his head finally snapping to him. He could see her frustration plainly.

“Do you question my decision to honor their request and incinerate a single man for their surrender?”

“Is that what will happen?”

“Why wouldn’t it happen?” said Aegon, keeping his voice level. Deep down, he was asking the same question.

Visenya took a breath, trying to calm herself.

“Every kingdom we’ve taken has fought. None surrendered right away. Harren Hoare. Durrandon. The Field of Fire. And the North come marching south with all their armies just for one duel?”

Rhaenys reached for a plum. “It could be their way of facing face. Torrhen Stark would dishonor himself if he surrendered without a fight, but he doesn’t want his men to die needlessly. With a duel, at least some Northern blood is spilled defending the homeland.”

“Defending the homeland?” Visenya asked, not bothering to mask her incredulity.

Rhaenys shrugged. “It’s symbolic. I’d wager that whomever their champion is, Stark gathered all the lords in the North and made them swear, that whoever became the new Warden, would have to provide for the champion’s family, after he’s gone. How else would he have gotten a volunteer?”

“So why didn’t Torrhen Stark volunteer as champion?” said Visenya. “If he believes that the North is lost, that this duel is simply symbolic and he is truly determined to save as many Northmen as possible, why didn’t he volunteer himself? Instead another man is chosen as a sacrifice for Northern honor?”

Rhaenys turned to Aegon. “Did Torrhen Stark tie his life to his champions?”

Aegon scratched his chin. “He would forfeit his life if his champion fell.”

Rhaenys raised her eyebrows so high they nearly disappeared. “If?”

“His word, not mine. I said when.” Aegon made himself stand. He was very tired. He wondered if Torrhen would be able to sleep tonight. Whether the King in the North could bring himself to close his eyes and never gaze upon a night sky again.

Immediately, he had a sudden urge to gaze upon the stars himself and made his decision for the coming morn.

“In case this is a trap, we’ll take all precautions. We’ll send scouts at dawn to cover the dueling ground and the surrounding area. Set up a chain of messengers for any developments here or there. I want the army in formation when we leave, prepared to defend and then storm the opposing shore, should the Northerners attack.”

Visenya nodded. “Which dragon do you want for the duel?”

“Balerion,” said Aegon.

Rhaenys smirked. “Bit overkill for a single man.”

“Any dragon would be overkill for a single man,” said Aegon, taking a final tally of the men. “Besides a man agreeing to die by dragonflame is brave at the very least. I will honor him with our hottest inferno. And should the Northerners resort to subterfuge and spring a trap on Balerion, he’s strong enough to break any restraints they have.”

“If that happens, I should be with you,” said Visenya. “Just in case.”

“No, I want you here, heading the armies. Should you receive you my order to fight because of Northern trickery...”

“If there is such a thing,” said Rhaenys. Silence greeted her. She rolled her eyes in response. “Apologies dear brother-husband. I interrupted the King. Continue please.”

Aegon allowed himself a small smile. “Should you received word of any Northern trickery, I want you to fly across the Trident and burn the Northmen.”

“All of them?”

“One in ten should do. No more than a quarter. Those men are needed for the harvest after all. You, sister-wife,” he said, addressing Rhaenys. “…will be up above us as the duel proceeds. Keep a respectable distance, but watch Torrhen Stark carefully. Don’t interfere.”

“Unless?” asked Rhaenys.

“Unless you deem it necessary.” Aegon rubbed his eyes. “Visenya, go to Orys and fill him in. Then the two of you head to bed. The North will be ours tomorrow, one way or another.”

Visenya nodded and left, the tent flapping open enough to let dragonheat through. Vhagar was slumbering outside. Rhaenys stood up and came behind Aegon, her arms slinking around him. She pressed a kiss to his neck.

“You should come to bed as well, love,” she muttered into his silver hair.

“I will,” said Aegon. “I’ll join you soon. I want to see the stars.”

“You should let Balerion rest.”

“You think he needs it for the big duel tomorrow?” asked Aegon. He felt Rhaenys snort behind him. “Stars are beautiful for a grounded man as well. I’ll let Balerion sleep.”

He felt her hands turn him around and met her lilac eyes with his own. Those eyes closed as she pressed a kiss to his lips, her mouth opening under his. They continued for a while, until Aegon stopped, pressing his forehead against hers.

“You’re excited for tomorrow.”

She grinned. “I’m excited now.” She kissed him again, but broke away quickly. “Don’t gaze at the stars for too long, love.”

Aegon’s hands traveled down and rested on her arse, gripping it firmly. “I’ll be only a few minutes. Be ready for me.”

Rhaenys smirked. “Of course, your Grace.”

She turned and left for their bed. Aegon forced himself to exit the tent. He walked past the sleeping Vhagar, where the air was actually chilled. He took several deep breaths and looked up. Each star this night seemed to shine brighter than any night before. He wondered how the stars looked up north. Visenya was the one who flew over the North, scouting for the conquest. She flew past the Wall, but not too far. On her last night, she saw lights. Dancing lights of blue, gold, emerald and violet. They were off in the distance. In the True North. She flew no farther to find them again.

Aegon took in the stars for one last look before heading back to the tent. He wanted to see the dancing lights for himself. He wanted to see every treasure of his future Kingdom. Tomorrow he would gain the largest piece of that Kingdom. True, there was the Wall dividing the North, but what were walls to dragonfire?

He hoped Torrhen Stark took time to gaze at the stars this evening. He wondered if he knew of the dancing lights up north. If he knew what a treasure he was gambling away with this duel. On his champion going against a dragon.


	2. Chapter Two

The morning fog remained as midday approached with overcast skies. Orys Baratheon stood with fifty soldiers under the red and black Targaryen banner. They had arrived an hour beforehand. Upon doing so, Orys ordered a complete search of the surrounding area. His men scoured the lush forestry surrounding the blackened earth.

They found nothing. Nothing but greenery. No traps, no ropes, no hiding Northerners. Nothing that would attempt to snare his King’s steed. A peaceful forest would stand witness to this duel.

Orys snorted lightly.

_No, not a duel. An execution._

The Northerners were already here when they arrived. Torrhen Stark and his bastard brother, Brandon stood silent with their own entourage. They didn’t disrupt the search, merely gazing out onto the dueling area as their own men combed the forest.

Now that the search was nearly complete, the two parties stood silently next to each other. The Northmen had settled near the tree line and they mirrored them, not willing to have an enemy at their backs.

And then they waited, estimating how long until the sun would reach its high point. It was hard to tell with the clouds, but it was close. Orys glanced east. His Majesty should be arriving at any moment.

He heard a rustle behind him and turned. The last scout had returned and arrived at his side, standing at attention.

“At ease,” he muttered. He glanced to the Northerners, but they didn’t seem interested in their returning scout. “Anything back east where we came?”

“There’s nothing, m’Lord.”

Orys nodded. “Good.” He turned back to the field for a few seconds before realizing that the soldier was still standing next to him.

“What is it?”

The scout shook his head. “I…m’Lord, I don’t know…”

“Do you see any snares? Any northern soldiers? Traps?”

“No, m’Lord. I didn’t see any of that…but I didn’t see anything else.”

Orys stared at him. “What do you mean?”

The scout swallowed. “Maybe when we were all together, I couldn’t tell. But when I was alone in that forest, it was just empty. I didn’t see any small game. I didn’t hear any birdsong. It was just…quiet. I didn’t like it. Everything’s gone, m'Lord.”

Going back to when they first arrived, Orys tried to remember the forest, any sounds that were mysteriously absent…but he couldn’t place any firm memory on it. His focus was on the charred field, his mission to secure it. He hadn’t spared a thought to any absent birdsong.

A roar from the sky jolted him from that musing. He straightened along with every other Targaryen soldier as their King descended.

King Aegon landed and dismounted with ease, striding towards them. The arrival of Balerion inspired a fresh gust of wind which billowed the Conqueror’s red cape out from behind him.

Orys knelt, as did the other soldiers, only to stand when King Aegon beckoned them to. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the Northerners still standing.

_No matter. They’ll kneel at the end._

His Grace nodded. “Orys.”

“Your Grace. My men and I have scoured this area. We detected no snares or traps or any other trickery set for you or the Black Dread.”

The King turned to the Northerners. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m disappointed by the news or not. Certainly expected less of a surrender from these fools.”

Orys followed his Majesty’s gaze. Torrhen Stark met their eyes calmly, but all the rest of the Northmen stared at the Black Dread. Balerion turned to them and roared. Orys felt his chest vibrating from the sound.

Almost all of the Northmen flinched, but they maintained their stares, defiant. Torrhen Stark didn’t recoil from the dragon’s roar. He simply looked at them, waiting for the King to approach.

King Aegon sighed. “Well, no sense in wasting any more time.”

He stepped forward. Orys fell in behind him, along with a dozen other guards. Torrhen Stark walked with Brandon Snow and only two men alongside him. Each party stopped within a respectful distance.

“Good day, your Grace,” said Torrhen, nodding. “I assume that Balerion will be your champion today?”

“You assume correctly, Stark.”

Brandon Snow jerked his head up. “What of that then?”

Orys craned his neck, squinting. Just below the clouds, Meraxes glided idly above them. He couldn’t see her from the ground, but he assumed Queen Rhaenys was in her saddle, her eyes on the blackened earth below.

His Majesty suppressed a laugh as he faced the Northmen again.

“My sister, Lord Snow, Rhaenys. She’ll be a spectator today along with her mount.” He smiled. “I don’t believe Balerion will require her help today.”

King Aegon looked over the Northmen. “Though that may change once I lay eyes upon your champion, Stark. So…which one of you will be fighting for the North today?”

Orys scanned the Northerners, but no one stepped forward. They all just glared at the King. No focus went to a single man. Torrhen didn’t signal anyone to step forward.

He turned back to His Grace, who tried to keep a smile from growing. “I’ve seen many a man burned alive, my friends. If you stand still and allow the inferno to engulf you, I’ll guarantee you a quick death.”

“Your Grace,” said Torrhen. “Our champion is not with us. He’ll be approaching Balerion from the north. He’s waiting there now.”

The Winter King nodded off to the other edge of the field. Orys Baratheon stared at the forest line. They’d scoured the area. No one was there, not last they’d checked…

King Aegon looked to the forest and back. “Why is he not here?”

“He’s waiting for us to finish talking. Once the Black Dread is ready and moves to the center of the field, he’ll know the time is nigh.”

A slight trembling began at Ory’s right hand and his eyes returned to the North, to the trees. Was he scared? Why? There was no reason to be. He stood next to a dragon. Three of them…

He swallowed and gripped his hand. He couldn’t doubt himself now. His King needed him. He turned back to the Northerners, to Torrhen Stark waiting politely.

“So,” said Torrhen, quietly under the low rumble of Balerion’s breath. “Are we done talking?”

King Aegon dropped his smile. “You know what awaits you? When Balerion incinerates your champion…”

“Then I will walk onto the field,” Torrhen responded. “And face incineration myself.”

Silence reigned. Orys glanced to the trees, listening. His scout was right. There was no birdsong.

“Then yes, King of Winter,” His Grace said softly. “We’re done talking.”

Torrhen nodded and turned to the field. King Aegon turned to Balerion and nodded. The Black Dread immediately turned and stalked slowly to the center of the field. A call from Meraxes raised a few heads, but Orys heard that roar enough. It was just encouragement from his brethren.

Balerion didn’t answer back though. Once situated in the center, an easy thousand feet from their viewing, he dug into the earth and arched his neck, staring into the trees. A low rumbling escaped him.

Orys came back to himself to see the Northerners stepping back.

King Aegon noticed it as well. “Planning a quick escape, Stark?”

“Just giving the champions their space, your Grace,” Torrhen responded lightly. “I recommend you and your men step back as well.”

He heard more than one scoff from his side, but Orys didn’t laugh. His eyes were still on the Northern treeline. Balerion had spotted something. Soon he did as well. A cloaked, hooded figure was emerging from the forest, walking slowly forward.

The Black Dread opened his mouth and roared. His idea of a welcome. But the figure didn’t halt and continued to trudge forward. It was only when Balerion stopped roaring that the stranger stopped. Orys stared, as did the others, trying to make out this champion.

But his hood was up and his head lowered. A stiff wind billowed his cloak out and Orys saw no weapon. Not from this distance. He blinked and looked again. The challenger wasn’t wearing anything under his cloak.

_He’s truly volunteered to die. Nothing but his life will be lost to Balerion’s heat._

Orys believed the thought. He truly did. But the trembling returned to his hand and he couldn’t help but feel that something wasn’t right…

Balerion felt no such hesitation. After contemplating the volunteer, he stalked forward, the earth shaking beneath his feet. He stopped a hundred feet before the champion, who held his place.

Arching his neck, Balerion raised his head. Orys saw the chest fill out and knew: their champion was only a few more seconds away from death.

He faced it admirably though. The stranger raised his head, though Orys was too far away to make out his face. He unclasped his cloak and threw it to the wind. His arms were still outstretched when Balerion opened his jaws and unleashed a firestorm on the man.

Orys turned back to King Aegon. He wasn’t afraid to watch men burn. He’d seen it before. He just knew it was over.

So did His Grace, who turned to Torrhen Stark, nodding politely.

“Have you any last words, King Stark,” he asked. “Before you…”

His Grace’s words were interrupted by a roar. They turned back to Balerion but the dragon was still breathing fire. It wasn’t him. Orys shot his eyes upward. It wasn’t Meraxes and it certainly didn’t sound like Vhaegar. This was a deeper sound. It sang of the earth shaking; moving stone and ice cracking.

Orys turned back to the field and followed the fire from Balerion, to where the stranger had stood only seconds before…

What he saw…what he saw was impossible…but it was there and it was coming for the Black Dread.

A scaled arm, grey and scarred, grew out of Balerion’s inferno. It grew in size and was followed by another arm, already giant. He saw bright cerulean eyes before he saw the head. Dark wings soon eclipsed it as they unfurled and Balerion’s heat was countered with a sweeping chill. He blinked again and the whole beast was present. On all fours, its tail emerged last and curled around the body as those cerulean eyes settled on the Black Dread. It roared again and Orys actually swore he felt the earth shake.

He heard his King speak to Torrhen, having found his voice. He didn’t look away though. He couldn’t.

“What the hell is that?” His Grace exclaimed.

“Our champion, your Grace,” Torrhen replied softly.

No more conversation could be heard. Balerion roared back at the Northern champion and charged forward. He was still the bigger beast.

The grey dragon answered the charge with its own. It didn’t roar back though. It scurried forward quickly, crouching low. Unlike the Black Dread, his wings were on back and his front legs weren’t hindered. Balerion brought his flames low, engulfing his opponent in fire.

The Northern dragon ducked his head as he charged and Balerion’s flames washed over his back. He was right in front of the black dragon…

_His wings within snapping distance!_

Balerion shared Orys’ thought and the dragon lunged forward, jaws still wide…

And was instantly forced up. The grey dragon gripped Balerion’s throat with its talons. Planting its feet and tail, it forced the Black Dread up, his jaw away from its wings.

Balerion pulled back, out of its talon grip and lunged forward again toward the neck. It was too soon. The talons found their mark again and forced the Black Dread back. Balerion tried to secure his footing in the burned earth, but it was too late.

As the Northern dragon pushed forward, it didn’t let up either. It opened his jaws and shot fire straight at Balerion’s face, his flame tinged with a beautiful blue. It wasn’t ice though. He felt the heat from here. Though fire couldn’t kill a dragon, this flame was certainly uncomfortable for Balerion. The black dragon shook his head viciously, trying to escape the blinding inferno. He couldn’t smell through the heat.

Orys turned away to his King. It took a solid effort.

“Your Grace, you should step back! Now!”

King Aegon didn’t argue. The entire Targaryen regiment pushed back to the trees. And they enclosed around their King. Futile as it was. If that creature emerged victorious, this guard of fifty was not going to be adequate protection for His Grace…

_No, no! Don’t think that. He is the Black Dread! The last to have seen the glory of Valryia. Whatever this creature is, it cannot claim that!_

The creature seemed to be done breathing its fire. It pushed off the Black Dread and turned around. Balerion had only shook off the last of the blue fire when the creature’s tail met him, hitting squarely in the jaw. Orys felt the impact in his chest.

Balerion fell to the ground, but found his feet by the time the grey creature faced him again. It tried to get low again, but Balerion met it there, crouching to its level and they collided.

The earth trembled with their match, as wings, talons, teeth and fire entangled with each other. They rolled over several times and back again, setting fresh fires to the earth, coating it with dark blood. Once they came within two hundred feet before rolling back. Orys stood ready to flee with his Grace, to find shelter in the woods.

He kept his eyes on the dragons grappling with each other. Balerion roared and growled as he attempted to stay on top on the Northern champion, but the grey dragon was strangely quiet. It breathed harder as it became exerted, but there were no roars or growls from it. Its cerulean eyes were still prominent amidst the destruction. Orys swore they looked calm.

Whereas Balerion’s eyes were increasingly wild. The longer he grappled, the more frustrated he became.

_He’s never met anything he couldn’t crush easily…not even his own brethren…_

Another furious roar erupted from Balerion as the grey dragon forced itself on top, its talons finding his throat. Pining his right wing down, the Northern beast shot fire straight at it, concentrating its heat on a single spot…

Orys felt dread creeping through him.

_The wings…thinner than the body’s hide…_

Balerion’s roar of fury turned to one of pain as the fire burrowed deep into his wing. He ended his roar by rearing up and biting the grey dragon’s right arm. Blood rained on the field.

The fire ended as the gray dragon roared in pain itself. It didn’t wait though. Through its pain, it lurched back and latched onto the Dread’s head. Its jaws couldn’t encompass the whole skull, but it got a firm bite, answering blood for blood.

Balerion released the arm, screeching in pain once again. It was higher though and it pierced Orys’ ears. His tail swung and struck the grey dragon, forcing it off.

Orys’ fears were confirmed as Balerion turned to face the beast, showing his face clearly. The Northern dragon found Balerion’s right eye. The punctured orb bled steadily as the Dread bared its teeth. Blood streamed down the grey dragon’s right front leg as well. But it stood steady, waiting for the Dread to make the next move.

A screech fell from the sky and all on the field, dragon and man alike, looked up to see Meraxes diving down.

Orys looked to His Grace, who seemed to be resisting the urge to shout out. He knew that Rhaenys couldn’t hear him from the ground. He glanced to the Northmen, who appeared angry at this intrusion. Torrhen, on the other hand, merely looked resigned.

He brought his eyes back to the field in time to see the Northern dragon unfurl his wings. It ran away from a bleeding Balerion along the forest line, flapping his wings. It was three hundred away from them when it began to fly, leaving the ground as Meraxes arrived.

A great gust of wind forced them back and Meraxes added to it. She glided out of the dive and flew up quickly again to the gray beast that wounded her brethren. 

Orys stepped out from the tree line to view the dragon duel. He wasn’t the only one. His Grace joined him at his side, craning his neck. He spared a glance to Balerion, who was breathing heavily. His right wing ruined by the beast’s flame.

 _It’ll be a while before he could fly again._ Orys looked back up. _He won’t be able to come and help you, my Queen…_

The overcast skies, shielding the sun, allowed them to see the two dragons in flight. At least at first. Meraxes pursued the grey dragon, ignoring its larger size. Its separate wings made the Northern beast slower and Meraxes drew closer, howling in fury. Her flames licking it tail as they climbed higher and higher.

The grey dragon disappeared into the clouds and Meraxes followed it without hesitation. All on the ground were silent as they watched the mass of clouds for any sign of their fight.

“You fool,” whispered His Grace, next to him. “You utter, utter fool…”

Flashes of red fire glowed above them. Echoes of dragon roars reached their ears. Orys noted they belonged to Meraxes only. He hadn’t heard the roar of the grey beast yet, no sounds of shaking earth from the sky…

After a minute, Orys finally heard it. A roar which was answered by a screech from Meraxes. Spurts of red fires scattered through the clouds, though they seemed to be concentrated in one spot.

“Your Grace!” He directed his King’s gaze to the singular spot, just in time to see the dragons emerge from the clouds.

Orys felt his stomach drop. The grey dragon had pinned Meraxes’ wings to her side and was diving to the earth. Its jaws were pressed around her throat. Her screeches weakened as they dove, her protesting fire smothered. He tried to see the Queen, but he couldn’t see her. Not yet.

Balerion struggled to his feet and started for them, roaring. Trying to meet his falling sister before it was too late.

But he was too late. His King gripped his arm just before the grey beast released Meraxes and glided out of the dive, sending her to the earth, right on the edge of the Trident. Her impact shook the ground harder than anything so far and more than a dozen of their company fell to their knees.

Water shot up and the ashes rose from the charred meadow, obscuring Meraxes and Balerion, who went to see to her. King Aegon stared at the dust cloud, eyes-wide trying to penetrate it.

“Please,” he begged, so only Orys could hear. “Please, no.”

They heard Balerion’s mournful roar before they saw them. And when the ashes finally cleared, they saw Meraxes lying still, half in the river. The Black Dread nudged her, trying to urge some life into her. But she would not move.

Orys looked to the saddle and miraculously, the Queen was still there…but she wasn’t moving as well. Whether she lived, he couldn’t see. Not from here. She wasn’t a giant like Meraxes.

Balerion’s mourning turned to fury as the Black Dread turned from his dead sister to the grey beast that slew her. It waited almost patiently at the center of the field. Rearing up, Balerion roared and the grey beast answered immediately.

Orys’ chest almost hurt from the vibrations.

“Your Grace.”

He turned along with King Aegon to the Northmen. Torrhen was facing them, his face still sad.

“It’s over. Tell your beast to yield and no more harm will come to him.”

His Grace was not prepared for this. They had combed this field for trickery and traps. Not for monsters. Not one like theirs.

_No…no, this beast is not like ours. It came from a man…who the fuck was he? What was he?!_

Torrhen continued. “You’re already lost one dragon, your Grace. And the Black Dread is injured, nearly crippled from this duel. How long do you believe you can hold the other six kingdoms with only one healthy dragon?”

Balerion couldn’t have heard that, but as if to prove Stark wrong, the Black Dread charged forward, half-blind. If he could end the grey beast now, even at the cost of his own life, they could still conquer the North with only Vhagar. She and their armies were enough.

Orys recognized it as a futile hope. His heart sank as the grey beast met the Black Dread. The creature’s right front leg, despite Balerion’s bite, still moved well. The same couldn’t be said for Balerion’s wing. The Dread’s charge was marred with a limp.

The Northern dragon showed no mercy. It pushed past Balerion’s jaws and latched onto the right wing. More blood showered the field and Balerion’s roar of rage was topped with pain. They went to the ground again, but this time the Dread couldn’t roll over and get the upper hand. The grey beast pinned him, as he tore up the wing, slammed its tail against the body and pressed its jaws against Balerion’s neck, pushing him to the ground.

Balerion struggled to get free, but he couldn’t. The grey dragon, though smaller, maintained his grip on the Dread as it demolished their great beast. Their ultimate weapon. And Balerion’s attempts to free himself, to attack this creature, were growing steadily weaker and weaker.

Finally, the grey creature unhitched its jaws from Balerion’s neck and pressed its talons against it, forcing Balerion’s head to the ground. Orys saw the neck where the grey dragon had bitten him. The scales were gone and raw skin was exposed, bleeding slowly onto the earth.

The grey dragon secured Balerion and turned to them. If Orys wasn’t mistaken, it seemed to be staring directly at His Majesty. He turned to King Aegon, and he wasn’t the only one.

“This is your last chance to let Balerion walk away from this alive, your Grace,” said Torrhen. The sadness was gone and the King of Winter was present once again. “Our champion’s waiting for you, listening for your decision, but he won’t wait long. Will you yield?”

His Grace was gripping his hands so tight they turned white. The rest of their company were staring at him, imploring him silently.

The grey beast opened his mouth and a low rumble emanated from him. A blue fire was beginning to build…

“You’ve seen that fire cripple Balerion’s wing.” Torrhen nodded to Balerion, his neck laid bare. “Do you believe his unscaled skin will fare any better?”

Orys placed his hand on his King’s shoulder cautiously.

“Your Grace…” His voice trailed off. _Yield_ , he wished to say, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t his decision.

The grey beast drifted his head toward the exposed neck.

Torrhen stepped closer. “King Aegon, Ruler of the Six Kingdoms, do you yield?” he asked, his voice low and harsh.

His Grace looked to King Torrhen before jerking his head to the field. His lilac eyes burned.

“I yield,” he whispered. Each word was a heavy toll.

The grey beast immediately rose and closed his mouth, extinguishing his blue flame. Orys stared. How it could have heard His Grace…its hearing must be incredible.

It stalked to the other end of the field, but didn’t leave quite yet. Its cerulean eyes burned into Balerion as the Black Dread gathered himself. Balerion didn’t hear the surrender. He merely felt it as his master gave it. So the Black Dread didn’t pursue the grey beast. He couldn’t. He could only growl as he crawled to his feet, still breathing heavily.

His Grace gripped his arm.

“My sister,” said King Aegon, staring off to the still corpse of Meraxes. “Somebody see to my sister!”

Orys shouted to a few men who took off running toward the Trident. A healer was amongst them. Orys looked back to Balerion, who sat on the ground, breathing heavily. It would take more than one healer to bring Balerion back to some vitality. All the dragoncare in the known world wouldn’t bring the wing back.

He heard the Northmen beginning to leave. They marched behind along the trees. He turned to see that King Torrhen hadn’t moved, still flanked by his guard and bastard brother.

“My army departs the Riverlands today, King Aegon. I don’t expect any fire from the sky to follow us.” Torrhen glanced to Balerion and back.

“Once in Winterfell, I’ll send a raven with a declaration. It will officiate the independence of the Northern Kingdom from your own. In perpetuity. I expect it back, signed and acknowledged within a moon’s turn.”

King Aegon didn’t respond, his eyes were on the grey beast. Orys looked to it as well. It regarded them patiently.

However, the King of Winter didn’t need a response. With a nod, he marched past King Aegon and joined the rest of his soldiers in the journey back north.

“Who…” said His Grace, having found his voice. King Torrhen paused and turned. His Grace raised his hand and pointed at the grey dragon, his face as white as his hair.

“Who is he?” he asked.

King Torrhen looked to the grey dragon and back. “I told you. He’s our champion.”

Orys saw such a rage on His Grace’s face that he had never seen before. He didn’t know the last time His Grace had felt so powerless.

The King of Winter stepped forward, uncaring of His Grace’s rage.

“Your Grace, a dragon’s strength grows with its age, aye?" He looked to Balerion. “Your dragon is old. He’s the only one left in this world who has seen Valyria. As it was.”

He then nodded to the grey beast. “But he’s seen more. Much more.” He sighed. “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, your Grace.”

With that, the King of Winter turned and marched. The grey beast stayed still and watched. Orys knew deep down, that it would stand guard until every soldier was gone from the remaining eye of Balerion. There would be no revenge. Not today.

_Nor ever…none that you’ll see._

“Orys,” muttered King Aegon. “See to my sister.”

He nodded and marched off quickly to Meraxes. He turned back to see Aegon walking numbly to Balerion, to see what remained of the Black Dread.

By the time he reached Meraxes, they had already removed Queen Rhaenys from the saddle. Orys ignored the pain in his heart as he passed Meraxes’ empty eyes and approached the Queen, lying on a stretcher. She wasn’t covered, so she wasn’t dead, much to his relief.

He came to her side, kneeling down.

“My Queen,” he muttered. “Are you all right?”

“Or…Orys,” she croaked, breathing heavily.

“Yes, my Queen, it’s me. Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?”

It took a second for the Queen to answer. “No…nowhere.”

Orys stilled. “What do you mean?”

“No…no pain. I don’t...” She blinked rapidly. “I don’t feel any pain.”

He looked to the rest of her, then up to the healer. He shook his head slowly. Biting down a wail of despair, he turned back to Her Majesty.

“My…my husband…” she said.

“Alive,” he answered quickly. “King Aegon lives. Balerion lives.”

“He…he won?”

Orys shook his head. “No, my Queen, no.”

Tears poured out of her eyes. No one said anything. The rest of the soldiers worked and secured her for the two-mile hike trek to camp. Rain was beginning to fall and a cover was constructed to shield the Queen. Orys squeezed her hand, forgetting she couldn’t feel it.

“Rest easy, my Queen, rest easy. We’ll have you back in no time.”

“Orys,” she whispered. He paused, turning to her. “Kill me.”

He couldn’t move. He didn’t for such a time that she commanded him again.

“Kill me, I say.”

Orys shook his head. “I cannot do that, my Queen.”

“I am…still your Queen…so kill me. I…I command it.”

He turned and walked away. “I’m off to fetch His Grace,” he shouted. “No one touch her until we return!”

He stalked off, ignoring the Queen’s calls, ignoring the tears that were beginning to run down his eyes. The chill of the rain disappeared as he neared Balerion. A small joy rose in him, knowing that the Dread’s fire was not extinguished.

King Aegon was kneeling next to the head, stroking him. Orys allowed him a moment before speaking.

“We’re ready to depart, your Grace.”

For a few seconds, he wasn’t sure if His Grace had heard. However, the King stood and Balerion raised his head.

“I cannot ride him. Not now,” the King muttered, his voice barely above the rain. “I shall have to walk back with you.”

“We’ll be with you, your Grace,” he said, as clearly as he could. “Always.”

“Yes,” His Grace murmured, before meeting his eyes. “Rhaenys?”

Orys swallowed. “She lives, your Grace…but she’s broken. We won’t know much until we get a proper healer to see to her.”

King Aegon closed his eyes. He spared a single tear before nodding.

“Then we should leave. Balerion will escort us. He can still do that, can he not?”

“Indeed, your Grace.”

But they didn’t move. As if by something greater, they turned to the end of the field. The Northern troops were long gone, but their champion remained, poised, unbothered by the rain. His cerulean eyes still shone from there.

Orys went to stand between him and the creature, but His Grace halted him.

“He won’t attack us,” King Aegon said. With that, he turned his back on the creature and began to march back to the Targaryen retinue. Balerion gave a final growl before joining him, the earth shaking as he stalked alongside his master. Orys was the last one to turn away.

When he did, he swore he wouldn’t look back. Wouldn’t give the creature the satisfaction. Any more of his fear.

He couldn’t help it. After a hundred yards of marching through the muck, he turned back.

But the cerulean eyes were gone. He blinked and stared. The grey dragon had vanished. No wings, no grey scales, no blue fire. Just a blanket of rain that dressed the forest.

He stared though, brought his eyes lower and he swore…he swore that a hooded figure was entering the woods. He blinked again and it was gone. Never to be seen by him again.

Never to be seen again by any southerner. Not of this time.

* * *

The march home was filled with songs and shouts of triumph. Most of the Northerners were nowhere near the dueling ground. However even from two miles away, the roars of the dragons were faintly heard. Some claimed to have felt the earth quiver from the impact of the duel.

Perhaps duel was an inappropriate word. At least the soldiers thought so. The duel was a battle now. The Fire on the Trident. The Black Dread versus the Wings of Winter, Guardian of the North.

Torrhen Stark was spared from most of these celebrations. He drank with his men the first night. But not too much. As they continued to march north, he kept an eye on the southern skies, hoping not to find Vhagar coming in to attack from the sky.

The various houses dispersed as they marched farther. He thanked the lords and their soldiers for their loyalty and courage. They renewed their pledges. He watched them depart to their own homes, hoping that the Targaryens wouldn’t fly up and attack the men alone before the Guardian could protect them.

Torrhen was pulled from these thoughts by the sight of an upcoming hooded figure standing by the road. This figure was a slender man with a bandaged right arm. He turned to his brother.

“Brandon, ride up ahead. I need to speak to someone.”

Brandon glanced at the hooded figure, waiting ahead. He nodded.

“Pass on my gratitude, if you would,” Brandon said, kicking his horse into a light trot. Torrhen maintained his walk, waving to his guard to let the stranger past. He kept his eyes forward, not looking down as the hooded man came into his periphery. A King, not bothering to look down upon his subject next to his horse. This man was no one, of no importance to anyone. It was a lousy masquerade in the bright of the day. Still, they played it.

“My brother knows who you are,” Torrhen said.

The hooded man did not seem concerned. The two walked in silence for a while. Torrhen happened a glance at the man, noting the tight bandage.

“Are you seriously injured?” Torrhen asked. The guards had given them room, but he still spoke softly.

The stranger shook his head.

“My arm will have a large scar. Nothing more,” he said. “Better off than the Black Dread.”

“We’re only a sennight from Winterfell,” said Torrhen. “Would you care to see our maester?”

“I’ll be fine. I brought some ointments with me from home.”

Torrhen resisted asking him where that was. It wasn’t his place to know. Still, he couldn’t help but be curious. He settled for a more polite question.

“How long will you march with us?”

“Two nights at least. I’ll turn from the main road then.”

“You don’t have a tent.”

The hooded man glanced at Torrhen. “No.”

“Well, then I invite you to be my guest for this march until you see fit to leave. You’ll share my tent, my food, my evening fire. You shall even have a horse, should you wish to give your feet a rest.”

Torrhen hoped he would accept. He didn’t think his honor would stand if the Hero of the North continuously refused hospitality from the King of the North. The man always went away. Always took care of himself. Always disappeared.

However something in the air was different. The hooded man brought his eyes to the front and answered.

“I’ll take your food and evening fire, your Grace. A tent is too hot for me in this weather and I enjoy the stars.”

“And the horse?” the King asked.

“A beast shouldn’t suffer another beast.”

Well, it was an improvement. Two out of four.

The two continued to march together. A distant song from the front reached their ears. It was a bawdy melody concerning a well-endowed Northman who fainted whenever he became aroused; the blood loss being too great. The Northman had a wife, who found this very frustrating. However sometimes, when she was too tired from the farmwork and wanted to sleep, it was a great relief.

His men sang the song once years ago in the presence of his wife, the Queen Cara Stark. They didn’t know, of course. They saw her above the training yard and instantly silenced themselves. She regarded them for a solid minute with her eyes of storm, letting their embarrassment grow. Finally she dismissed them. They hurried off and she managed to get inside, before collapsing into laughter. That night, she asked him to sing the rest of the song so she could learn it. He did. Later that night he proceeded to pretend to faint on top of her and wouldn’t move until she started to tickle him.

Gods, he missed Cara. His grip tightened on the reins when he realized that he almost never saw her again. Torrhen looked at the hooded man walking besides him. He needed to face him to say his next words.

“Thank you, Arlen. What you did, I can never repay. Though I wish you would let me try.”

Arlen said nothing and continued to walk alongside him. They didn’t say another word until they settled down to camp for the night. Arlen stood apart and made himself invisible to the men. It wasn’t hard. Most were certain that they would die in flames and were happy to celebrate the fact that they still breathed. They were happy to ignore anyone in that state.

King Torrhen sent Arlen to the healers to look at his wound and give it a fresh bandage. He reasoned that they needed at least one person to treat after a bloodless campaign. Arlen gave no protest and walked off, after a small bow for appearances.

Torrhen didn’t see him again until that evening. His men had hunted a stag and venison was roasting slowly over the fire. Cullen was pouring ale for the King and Brandon, when Arlen came out of the darkness. His step was so quiet that no one noticed him until he stood before them.

Brandon didn’t say anything at first. He simply stood and walked over to Arlen, placing himself in front of him. They regarded each other, Brandon’s drunkenness meeting Arlen’s serenity.

Brandon belched loudly. “I doubted your strength the night before you fought. I doubted you could handle a southern dragon. A foreign dragon. I ask your forgiveness.

Arlen said nothing. Brandon leaned forward.

“You do have the same eyes. They’re beautiful.”

Torrhen did notice that in the dark of the evening, Arlen’s eyes were very pronounced. A bright, solid cerulean. They shone from his face and they were staring straight at his drunken brother, who took a deep breath and stuck his hand out.

“I’d also like to shake your hand. I’d like to thank you properly for saving the North,” Brandon said, his voice swirling with sincerity and marred with hiccups.

Arlen let a little time go by, Brandon’s hand still before him. Finally he reached and grasped the hand, shaking it firmly. Brandon started to nod furiously, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Thank you, I say. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Before receiving a response from Arlen, Brandon turned to his brother.

“Your Grace, this man here, me,” he pointed, regarding himself. “This man here is deep in his cups and should join the more degenerate rapscallions in this company. I shall see you in the morning, with a surly temper, a battered physique, and a weakened disposition. Now, if your Grace and the Wings of Winter,” he said, nodding to Arlen. “…would excuse me, I’m going to go heave and find a decent whore to bore stiff.”

He bowed and walked down into the main camp, muttering:

“Good night and fair dreams to ye both.”

That parting remark left a silence which neither the King or the Guardian was in a hurry to break. Arlen came to the fire and sat cross-legged before it, the firelight dancing on his face.

Torrhen got up and went to the wooden cask that stood beside his tent. He returned with two full cups of ale. He handed one to Arlen and sat down with the other. He raised his cup and saw Arlen do the same. He rummaged his mind for half a minute, trying to think of an appropriate toast. Arlen regarded him patiently. Always patiently.

However eventually, Torrhen just nodded and bought the cup to his lips and drank. Arlen did the same. The King lowered his cup first, wiping the ale off his beard.

“I’m sorry for my brother. Although, I have to say; he does become more proper when he drinks. I believe he does it to mock me. You don’t have to worry about him though. He won’t tell anyone what you are. Or that you’re here. Even when he’s soused, he keeps secrets.”

There was a loud screech that was silenced in the darkness somewhere behind them. Torrhen turned to witness the rest, but all that he heard was a rustle beyond the scope of the fire. He brought himself around, sighing.

“Something was just hunted. Poor little thing.”

“I don’t worry about your brother,” Arlen said. “He has a good heart.”

“You’ve just met him.”

Arlen’s answer was another draught of ale. The echoes of song and drunken ramble were down the main tent. Torrhen was impressed it kept going night after night. However with much of the main host having departed to their own keeps, the natural sounds of night were actually heard again. Owls and cicadas. Others that prowled through the darkness, their footsteps light on the forest floor.

“It was a hare, your Grace. The screech you heard. An owl took him. He died instantly.”

Torrhen turned to find Arlen’s cerulean eyes boring into him. The King suppressed a smile. He forgot about Arlen’s sight. And his hearing. And other attributes as well. The night seemed noisy to him. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if he were as sensitive as Arlen. He wondered how the man could sleep. If he slept at all. He always seemed a little tired.

The King held his gaze, and Arlen did not break it. It wasn’t a challenge though. There was no arrogance in those unblinking cerulean eyes.

“What do you wish to ask, Guardian?” Torrhen asked.

“Your spirit seems low, your Grace,” said Arlen. “The North has stayed off the invaders. It is a Kingdom still.”

Torrhen rubbed his eyes. “Can you see into my soul, Arlen? You have excellent sight, but that is something of you I didn’t know.”

“There is much of me you don’t know, your Grace.” The center log of the fire burst open in the flames. Sparks flew into Arlen’s unflinching face. “But I don’t read souls. I see people and what they give. The way they smell. The way they move. Whatever way they live, I see them.”

“So you know all about us.” Torrhen drained his cup and got up to refill it.

“I won’t say that. I shouldn’t say that. It would be foolish to claim absolute knowledge of mankind.” Arlen drank. “But I haven’t been surprised by men for hundreds of years. Not by their actions. Not by their words. And certainly not by their souls.”

With a creak in his knee, Torrhen sat down with a refilled cup. The air seemed more chilly since he got up.

“What troubles your soul, Torrhen?” said Arlen.

Staring into his cup, Torrhen tried to find the right words. It was proving difficult. Finally he leaned forward.

“You’ve been in the North for as long as you can remember.”

Arlen nodded. “Yes.”

“Our Guardian for as long as you remember? Sworn to Winterfell and the Starks?”

“Yes.”

Torrhen’s eyes strayed to the fire.

“My family have served and ruled the North for thousands of years. We’ve had our share of unworthy Kings, but overall I’m proud of my family. I’m proud of how we ruled. I’m proud of our bannermen, our people, our lands. I’m just so damn proud. And I would like to tell myself that the people whom I rule and whom I serve are proud as well. And pleased to have a Stark as King in Winterfell.”

He leaned back and sighed. He drank the rest of his ale and remained seated, not bothering to refill it. Arlen’s cup was half-full and forgotten.

“When I first met you, Arlen, you said to me ‘Don’t call for me if you can handle the conflict yourself.’ Do you remember? That was very important for you. You looked in my eyes, swearing your strength to me, but you were a last resort. The final weapon. Something you’ve said to every King.”

The fires down below were starting to go out. The company was preparing for bed.

“Tell me, Arlen. When was the last time you ventured out of the Northern wilderness to fight for the Starks? Before Aegon came to Westeros.”

Arlen thought. “Four hundred years ago. A sea dragon west of Bear Island.”

“I thought you told me you’ve never fought a dragon before.”

“Not one in the air. Not one that breathed fire like me. Those dragons stayed in Essos, bound to Valyria. I don’t believe I even told the Stark King at that time. I simply heard of it from the Point and traveled to the Bay to stop the creature.”

Torrhen Stark stared before continuing on.

“You’ve dealt with those my family couldn’t handle, but we’ve heeded your warning. We didn’t turn to you for the wars against the Barrow Kings or the Red Kings. We’ve fought those on our own. Lost thousands of Northerners. But we stood on our own. We’ve dealt with the other kingdoms. And even without them, we’ve suffered enough through famine and winter and other cruelties of nature.

“But we’ve celebrated through the good times as well and I’d like to think that we’ve earned the right to rule the North. We’ve fought for it and served it as well as we could…but no matter how benevolent or accepted our rule, it’s always come with you at the back of everyone’s minds. Who would dare oppose my name when such a monster is pledged to it? Even during your great absences, when you are relegated to myth…”

He sighed. “You displayed something incredible at the Trident. My rule will be forever marked by it. And it will be a long time before the Starks could command respect on our own merits, rather than the carnage that saved us. I will make sure my children know that and their children after.”

Arlen didn’t respond and continued to stare into the flames.

Torrhen placed his cup down. “Well, at least I have my rule still. I wonder if Aegon will be able to keep his. Whether the Black Dread will heal…”

“You’re not the first Stark I’ve heard ask that question.”

He turned to the Winter Dragon. “No?”

Arlen shook his head. “It went all the way back to Bran the Builder. I don’t remember anything of him. Only that he accepted my pledge with trepidation. Most of you Starks do.”

A ghost of a smile passed over him. “Though I confess...if it weren’t your myths, I wouldn’t even remember Bran’s name.”

“What do you remember?”

“Nothing. More feelings and intuition than anything else. His face, his words…they escape me. Perhaps a mind can only hold so many much. As old as I am…memories are becoming increasingly precious. But I did like Bran. I remember that.”

Torrhen finally gathered enough strength to get up and refill his tankard.

“Well, you must have.” He steadied his hand underneath the keg. “You pledged yourself to him and his descendants.”

“I renew that pledge to every generation of Stark…if they’re worthy.”

Torrhen sat back down. “Why?”

This time, Arlen’s eyes traveled to him. He froze, the cerulean prominent even in this darkness.

“I believe I’m waiting for something. Something that your family must help bring forth.”

As tempted as he was to ask, Torrhen knew that Arlen wouldn’t be any more forthcoming than that. He doubted the Winter Dragon knew any more about what he was waiting for.

He took a sip and exhaled. “Well…is there anything I can do? To help you? To bring forth what you’re searching for?”

Arlen smiled softly and shook his head. “Just rule the North. I’ll champion it. As long as I must.”

“It must seem like an eternity to you.”

The dragon’s smile turned sad as he turned back to the fire.

“There are worse places to spend eternity, your Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers,
> 
> That brings this little story to an end. The third chapter is a bonus time-jump into Arlen's story and I'll publish that shortly. After that, it's back to The Prophet From Maine.
> 
> As readers of that story may note, there are shared names and other things that show up here. Like I said, I was deciding between the two stories and this one didn't interest me quite as much. But I'm still happy to write it and share it.
> 
> See you by Sunday at the latest for the bonus chapter! And if you haven't, please check out The Prophet From Maine. Should you be so inclined.


	3. Bonus Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers!
> 
> So this is just a little taste of what I probably would have gone with, had I decided to expand this story. This chapter is a little rough for my taste. I don't like that I hadn't settled on a POV, using both of the characters. But it was one of the first fanfic scenes I wrote and so it might as well be published as a chaser to the previous two chapters.

“Hello there.”

He turned to find himself facing a young man with black hair, pale skin and wormlike lips. Those lips were pursed into a small excited smile. That excitement reached his pale eyes, fixed on Arlen as he knelt down by the stream. He had two dirks at his hips and a slender bow across the back.

Arlen and the pale young man held eye contact for a brief time. He then broke the stare and went back to scrubbing his shirt.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” remarked the youth.

Arlen continued to scrub. He sat up a moment later, taking the moment to stretch his back. He heard a distant owl hoot. In the early afternoon. Not impossible he supposed, but still, it’s been a long time since he’s heard one during the day. He might try and go find it on the morrow.

He heard the pale youth talking again.

“I have to say, for some ancient guardian, you’re far too easy to sneak up on. If that’s what you really are.”

Arlen regarded the youth again. There was a fevered bloodlust in him, simmering below that excited smile.

He glanced around the surrounding forest. The stranger didn’t come alone.

“Yes, I’ve brought friends. Come on out!” he shouted.

A dozen men shuffled out of the woods, a few pulling moss from their hair. Some pulled swords. Others held rope and shackles.

“You took a while to find, you did. Do you realize how hard it to be inconspicuous, when you have to go around and ask the smallfolk if they know a man who hasn’t aged in years? It’s a rather strange question, and hearing it from me…well, I appear quite…”

The youth paused, thinking for the right word.

“...unhinged. And nobody said yes. No one seemed to know you. Then I came to the village down below in the glen. Asked everyone. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. No one knew you. Except one.”

Arlen placed the washing tub at his side.

“I asked a woman with lovely brown hair, by the mill, if she’s seen a man who stays young. She said no a second too slow. She was a poor liar. Maybe she saw what me and my band meant to do to you. It’s quite possible. If I could read her eyes, why couldn’t she read mine?”

Arlen placed his hands in the running stream.

“She’s dead now. I’m sure you’ve guessed that. Though I gave her a son before. I’m sure she can birth it in the Seven Hells. I left enough of her intact to do that.”

He shrugged, lightly laughing. “But then again, might not happen. My seed will have to contend with his and his and his,” he said, pointing various men in the group. “And his…did I miss anyone?”

The others didn’t respond. Their eyes were focused on Arlen, who extracted his hands from the chilling stream and placed them on his face, letting the cold sink in. He leaned back, sitting on the stone while he rubbed his face dry.

Finally he met the gaze of the pale youth.

“You are not a Stark.”

The pale youth smiled and shook his head. “No.”

“You’re no friend to the Starks.”

The youth shrugged. “Suppose not. We are for now. As soon as you’re dead though, that could change.”

Arlen looked to the earth, and then stood up, sighing. He felt the other men tense, but not the pale youth. He looked quite happy. He took the bow off his shoulder and nocked it; an arrow pointed directly at Arlen. Without seeming to mind, Arlen looked at each of the dozen men individually, taking in each one before centering his gaze to the arrow and the youth who held it.

“What is your name?” asked Arlen, addressing the pale youth.

The pale youth thought for a few seconds, considering whether or not to tell him. He suddenly smiled brightly and relaxed his bowstring, bringing bow and arrow to his side for a deep bow.

“My name, oh ancient one, is Ramsay of House Bolton.”

Bolton. Arlen sighed. It had been a long time since he’d encountered any of that ilk. Not nearly long enough though.

“Ramsay Snow. I see, I see…”

Ramsay’s smile froze and his eyes seemed to turn even paler. His men made eye contact with each other and raised their weapons. It was nearly there. The bastard was almost done playing. Ramsay gave a soft laugh, his mind giving way to more flayed flesh than was originally planned. His father had told him not to play and kill him before he could become the beast. But his father was not here. This guardian, the so-called Stark beast, was nothing but a slender man, scrubbing laundry like a woman.

And he called him Snow. There was no going back for this disappointment of a legend.

He raised his bow again and nocked the arrow, preparing to fire. However he still had one more question...

“You have my name, beast. What of yours? The name the Starks have hid behind for thousands of years. I’d like to hear it. Tell me your name.”

Arlen’s mind wandered to the murdered woman by the mill. He remembered her name. It was Annag. Annag was dead. He smelled her blood, dried and mixed with the dirt underneath Ramsay’s fingernails. He remembered her name and her kind dark green eyes.

“Just one more time I’ll say it, beast. Tell me your name.”

Arlen peered from the arrow to Ramsay. “No.”

Ramsay didn’t hear defiance often. It paused his arrow’s release.

“And why not? It’s only polite. Mine for yours. Why not tell me the name of the great guardian of the North?”

Arlen’s voice was softer than the running stream. “You won’t live long enough to use it.”

There was a silence in the clearing. Ramsay was fascinated by the man’s words, barely registering that the man had begun to remove his clothes. He took off his trousers and tunic, even his smallclothes, standing completely nude. He had multiple scars. Ramsay took them in. They were beautiful.

That was his one regret. His playthings rarely lived long enough to show their scars. Perhaps after this beast was dead and his lord father proceeded with their plans, he could keep a pet. A young Stark boy or girl to carve to his liking.

He was so lost to his fantasies. Only by a great effort, could he return his focus to the scarred nude man by the stream. The man was now looking at him.

“I don’t like your eyes,” the beast said quietly.

Those were the last words that Ramsay Snow ever heard. The last thing he felt were the hairs rising on his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, this little October surprise is done! Thank you for reading and commenting. Again, if you liked this, please check out The Prophet From Maine.
> 
> I'm off for a while to write the 100k words of that story, so you'll won't be hearing from me for a while. I have a way though to keep readers notified of my progress, so look out for that in the coming month.
> 
> In the meantime, please be safe! Try not to touch your face too much. Wash your hands and wear a mask, especially as we get into flu season. This pandemic's not going anywhere soon.
> 
> And please fucking vote.
> 
> Have a good fall and winter!


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